


no place like home

by calicokat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fisting, M/M, Mooseley, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 22:04:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calicokat/pseuds/calicokat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester never had a reason to expect to get what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no place like home

**Author's Note:**

> No beta reader, any mistakes are my own.
> 
> Supernatural and all related properties © The CW Television Network, and are used without permission.

Crowley's thighs shiver, his head thrown back until his neck's straining. Sam wets his lips, sucks in a breath, the sudden craving of a natural predator at the curve of cartilage and the strands of hair falling at the line where Crowley's razor stops, the stubble beneath it lightly accentuating his Adam's apple as he swallows, it bobs, and he shudders again.

Sam slowly moves his thick arm, depth gauged by the raised veins on his skin. _Wingspan of an albatross,_ Crowley said the last time he rounded on the man; flung arms out in frustration. Crowley's anus is a perfect, tight circle gleaming with lube, hairs smeared against his flesh with it, until Sam pushes further, his huge forearm opening him up, and the cheeks of Crowley's ass sink in, hugging Sam's iron hard muscles.

"Innit _that_ better than punching me in the face, darling?" Crowley says around a shaky exhalation, his cracking voice wrecked. Sam clenches his fist tighter and drags his arm out to the wrist in reply, his own stomach flinching, his cock shot with heat watching delicate skin pulled along. Crowley curses.

There is a part of Sam Winchester that will forever crave power. His body has held so much potential for harm, so many varieties – worst when it held nothing at all, no soul to check the aggression electrifying his brain, flooding its darkest reaches with hormones.

He has power right now, a hand pushed up beneath Crowley's knee, other leg obeying of its own accord. His arm plunges back in. Sam has broken so many bodies. He's torn so much skin. He feels the limits of Crowley's while he's fucking him with his fist buried somewhere above his sacrum, beneath his navel.

He really didn't think it was going to fit.

 _You know my safeword, Bullwinkle: 'Fuck, you're fucking it up, take it the fuck out,'_ Crowley said, smile craving sin. Sam can douse a soul in holy water, but he can't wash it clean. Crowley doesn't scream at door checks; Crowley kicks salt; Crowley's just a bastard, now. Failure in success.

Now Crowley's cussing and gasping for air in his bed, light glaring off the sweat on his skin, and Sam's getting comfortable, finds a steady rhythm, keeps tempo alongside Crowley's heaving chest. Crowley is gaping for air. "Fucking yob," Crowley's saying at a minimum for breath, but his arms are lying over his head, just flexing when he's thinking about grabbing Sam by the hair, or punching him in the face himself. That is what he's thinking, because his upper lip flinches in that so-familiar sneer.

Sam grins. It isn't feral; it isn't hungry. He just grins, and then he laughs.

"Yeah, you're hilarious," Crowley snips, sarcasm rolling out while he stretches his back, arches off the mattress but maybe that hurts, or at least it's not helping his back. He collapses and growls something in German. Everything in German sounds like cursing when you're American.

Crowley loves getting fucked. Crowley hates getting fucked. Sam is straight. But then there's Crowley's snark, and his smirk; the way he turns his head when he's being smug; his dogged confidence in the face of his fall; how he sidles up when Sam's fuming and then somehow he's stroking Sam's back, or they're kissing, and it's alright what Crowley did, or Dean did, or the world did to them. Then he turns Sam on, found the keys to engine, knows the gearshift blind.

Crowley is crooked as a bag of snakes, and somehow Sam's pumping his arm up his ass and Crowley's finally jerking off, foreskin sliding just a little under his palm, cock swollen up tight. Sam's smile falls off his face and he pants, aching and jealous, determined and possessive and in possession. He inhales his own ragged breath when streams of cum land in pearlescent globs on Crowley's stomach, bites his lower lip, raises his eyes to the dazed, fucked out expression on the man's face.

His arm keeps on thrusting until Crowley winces. Until Crowley groans. Brow stays riddled up. Lips curl with annoyance. Then Sam pulls his arm out, consumes the sound Crowley makes as he's stretched around the fist hugged by a now-used latex glove with a rush of achievement, of conquest, that makes him catch his breath.

It's Crowley's turn to watch him and his head sways, serpentine, conceited smile spreading on his lips even exhausted, prone atop mattress and pillows.

Sam wants to throw the glove in his face as he snaps it off his hand, but he wants to kiss that face so he pitches it in the trash. There's store brand hand sanitizer on his dresser and he leans over, reaches out, sweeps it up with his albatross wingspan and applies until no longer grimacing while Crowley laughs at him. The laughter is mocking. It warms Sam up inside all the same. He glances up, surrenders half a smile; he can laugh at himself. His life is ridiculous.

"Good job, you halfwit gorilla," Crowley says, smile warming up, too.

Now Sam's smile is the arrogant one.

"I was gonna say someday somebody will corner you and the sorcery, and the mouth, and the switchblades won't get you out of it – but that was me."

Crowley huffs with indignation. Scowls. The anger is authentic, but it doesn't matter much or at all.

Sam wanted normal and this _is_ basically it. Crowley surly before coffee at five am. Sam yelling when Crowley comes across his whyever-absented research and moves every-damn-thing around the table in the gambit of one-upping him on the answer. Crowley's pride and the complete absence of gratitude if Sam has to pull him out of a hot zone. Don't even, don't ever mention the word 'rescue'. Crowley sitting on Sam's back. He's not strong like he was but he knows his way around a back massage until Sam is a pleading, moaning mess. Having conversations with someone who keeps up, someone who's free and loose with throwing ideas back. Sam and Crowley and sometimes there's Charlie.

Sam moves up the bed; throws himself down beside Crowley; smiles relentlessly until Crowley gives up and lets Sam lean over him; kiss him; hand pressed to Crowley's chest and the man too tired to go anywhere.

Crowley loves dogs absolutely every bit as much as Sam does. Sam's sorry. About Growley. _He saved your life,_ Crowley snarled. _He bled for you – and then he bled for you and he died._ Now they have a shelter mastiff, grateful, full of energy and one hundred and fifty pounds. Not in the bedroom right now. Sam's not sure how he agreed to name her Lamashtu except that it's obscure enough and apparently she did Crowley a good turn this one time.

Sam combs his hand down Crowley's chest, presses it down his stomach, curls his fingertips in warm cum. Feels pleased with himself while they kiss mostly lips because Sam got the power fantasy out and Crowley is not stepping up to bat. The fuel gauge is closer to empty than full. Sam's gonna jack off for him, but not yet.

Crowley can work an espresso machine. Sam has accepted if the whiskey costs less than seventy dollars he had better Scope before trying to kiss him. Crowley will drink beer – if it's not piss American beer, so it better be a microbrew or imported from a civilized nation. Maybe Sam Adams Cherry Wheat on tap but how did you get me through the door of this shithole bar. Sam listens when Crowley goes off…and then on, and on, and on. Crowley wants to know about Stanford. Crowley hates Lucifer as much as Sam. Crowley is teaching Sam law: American, international, arcane and demonic. Quizzes in bed. An A+ never involved so much oral, back when.

Sam just had his arm up in Crowley's ass to the elbow and now he's kissing a man. He knows because of the grey-flecked beard at his lips and the hair of Crowley's body and the scent coming off him and the things that low, rough voice does to him when Crowley's mouth isn't otherwise occupied. Sam also has this thing about monogamy, which despite how many times Crowley has pointed out Sam is on the losing end of is lodged in place. Sam's desires are too intense and they're too complete.

Sam has normal.

It's just in a bunker built by an ancient order of human sorcerers who were Sam's ancestors with a man who used to be a demon.


End file.
